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Back behind the wheel of the Suburban, I relay the plan to Joanne.
“Forty minutes from now,” she says with a shake of her head. “He needs to be there now, Bradley.”
“It’s the earliest she can be there,” I say. “And I believe her. She’s all the way up in Saratoga. Just keep applying pressure to his wounds.”
My wife’s hands are stained with blood from doing just that. My guess is she felt as though just holding his hand wasn’t enough.
“What do we do in the meantime?” Joanne asks.
“We take a fly by to an old friend’s house,” I say. “Case the joint, so to speak.”
“What old friend?”
“Mr. Don Juan Perez.”
Backing out of the parking spot, I pull ahead, out of the lot, and onto Henry Johnson Boulevard. Perez’s inner-city mansion, or should I say fortress, is located further up on the corner of Lark and Dove Streets more towards the city center. It’s a massive five-story century old brick building that takes up nearly an entire city block. It’s more like an arsenal than a house. Armed guards are usually perched outside, and the place is always teaming with gangsters like the ones we killed today at high noon.
It’s amazing to me Don Juan has escaped arrest thus far, but his claim to be a legal importer/exporter must somehow be rock solid. If only the police could see what he’s cooking in the basement of that big brick castle, they’d know the truth. But that would take a warrant and my guess is Perez has greased more than one judge and DA in Albany law enforcement, plus its political machine. It’s amazing what can go on when you turn a blind eye to crime and corruption for the sake of the almighty dollar.
As we pass by the massive brick building, I notice the three or four identical Suburbans parked outside on the street, plus two Range Rovers. A couple of gangsters are patrolling the area. They aren’t openly carrying weapons, but I know they are concealing them under their shirts and muscle T-shirts. I also see one more vehicle. It’s Sean’s Volkswagen hatchback with the blown out rear window. Somehow, Don Juan must have driven it back here. Or someone did it for him. But it makes sense to me that he is avoiding a hospital to treat his wounds and his son’s wounds for the same reason Joanne and I are. We will attract the police.
At least I know where Don Juan and what’s left of his family will be residing for some time to come while they recuperate, and that’s precisely why I’m taking the chance on making this drive-by. I also know something else: that’s the place where Joanne’s mother was brutally beheaded. But I say nothing about it. I also don’t linger for too long just in case the gangsters spot one of their own SUVs making its way along Lark Street.
Driving on, I say, “Let’s head to the hospital now.”
Approaching the massive campus that is the Albany Medical Center, I pull onto a road marked DELIVERIES in bright red letters printed on a white sign. I take the road around the parking garage and that leads to the area behind the main hospital and physical plant. We pass by big tanks filled with CO2 and racks of piping attached to them, plus assorted smaller buildings, and maintenance sheds. When we come to a series of sliding glass doors marked MORGUE, I know we’re in the right spot. A few feet away from the morgue entrance is a smaller sliding glass entry that reads, EMPLOYEES ENTRANCE.
I park just to the left of the morgue doors and get out, leaving the SUV running.
“Hang on,” I say, inside the open door. “Be right back.”
Heading into the morgue, I look around for a wheelchair. I realize that most everything that enters this space is going to be riding a mobile gurney, but medical centers are chuck full of wheelchairs, right? Still, nothing to be seen at first glance. I head down a dimly lit hall with an exposed ceiling. The place is eerily quiet with only the clanging of metal pipes and hissing from steam valves providing a somber soundtrack. Up ahead, I spot a waiting area that’s got some chairs in it, a small couch, and a couple of end tables. A flat screen TV is broadcasting CNN, the volume silent. Located in the corner of the room are three folded wheelchairs. Bingo!
Pulling the first one out, I unfold it and begin wheeling it back towards the sliding glass doors. It’s then I notice a couple of wood and glass doors situated just a little to my right as I exit the waiting area. Releasing my grip on the chair, I go to the doors, and carefully peek through the small chicken wire reinforced glass. The body set on one of the closest of half a dozen stainless steel tables makes me go dizzy. It’s Esther. She’s naked, other than two green sheets covering her private parts. Her head is placed where it belongs on a metal block, but there’s maybe a four- or five-inch gap between her lower jaw and the neck to which it used to be attached. I’ve never seen a paler body. Not even Bradley Junior is that white and it makes me sick to my stomach to look at her empty of all her blood and her head detached from her body.
“I know we didn’t get along very well, Esther,” I whisper, “but God’s speed.”
Turning, I grab the wheelchair handles and exit the morgue as fast as humanly possible.
Wheeling the chair to the Suburban, Joanne opens the door, gets out.
“We’ll have to do this together,” she says. “He’s deadweight.”
“So long as he’s not dead,” I say.
Together, we gently slide him across the long back seat. Slipping my hands under his arms, I use all my leg and back strength to lift him by the shoulders and place him in the chair. Joanne slides his legs off the seat, and places them on the foot panels. Bradley Junior wakes up just slightly, issues a painful grunt, but then passes out again. I can’t imagine the pain he is experiencing right now, so it’s better that he’s not conscious. But then, what the hell do I know? I’m just a simple mailman.
Taking hold of the wheelchair handles, I wheel our son the few feet to the Employee’s entrance. I glance at my watch. If Jennifer is true to her word, she will be here in five minutes. I look around. Some hospital maintenance staff are coming and going from the maintenance sheds. They’re not giving us a second look, which is a good thing. No one seems to be coming or going from the morgue. That’s another good thing. For a split second, I consider telling Joanne about her deceased mother lying in state just a few feet away from us. But I’m not so sure she’d be able to deal with seeing her mom’s body in that kind of mutilated condition, so I let it go.
“Let’s get back in the Suburban,” I say, “and wait.”
We get in, and we watch the Employee’s Entrance door like a pair of hawks. When it opens a couple of minutes later, and a small, attractive strawberry blond haired young woman dressed in green surgical scrubs appears, our collective hearts are lifted. Jill takes a quick look over both shoulders, and then simply walks behind Bradley Junior’s wheelchair, and wheels him inside.
Glancing at Joanne, I can see the tears falling down her face. In a way, I guess I feel a little like crying too. It’s true, we’ve saved our son from a madman. But in another way, we’ve saved him from ourselves, and from what we’ve become over these past three-plus months. Reaching out, I take hold of my wife’s hand and squeeze it. I also lean into her and kiss her gently on her wet lips.
“Love you, Joanne,” I say. “Always will.”
“Love you more, honey,” she says.
Pulling away from the morgue, I make for the exit. We’ve just one more item to check off our list before we can end this thing with Don Juan Perez.